


Black Tears

by inkstrain (orphan_account)



Category: Alice Nine
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3121688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/inkstrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saga can be the king of cliché when he wants to be, and it tears Tora to shreds the morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Tears

The world is overdone, and he has stepped way past his personal boundaries in a span of a few hours. He’s had too much alcohol, too much cigarettes, too much fun, and everything appears all sorts of wrong: funny and depressing, silly and serious, up and down: polar opposites all at the same time. In a drunken man’s perspective, the earth is flat and currently tipped to one side, easily pushing him over the edge with no way back up. In his perspective, everything is crystal clear. And since he _is_ drunk, the world is pristine or so he thinks and believes as he insists he is fine, says he’s not even tipsy even though everyone else knows otherwise.

They are alone now. Muddled and smashed, through the haze of fading smoke and the after taste of bitter liquor, he figures that maybe, _just maybe_ , it won’t really hurt him, _them_ , to go with the flow. To try. But try what, he cannot figure out. Saga is different tonight, that much he figures as he looks at the other’s slender, fragile form. Something’s off about him and between them, but he can’t tell what it is exactly. He knows better than to discover what _what_ is, but he is drunk and curious about the things running inside Saga's head with every subtle change of facial expression reflected in those black lined eyes, strong nose, womanly lips. They stare at each other waiting, _just waiting_ – too familiar with each other to know what is wrong and right later on, when they find themselves crossing the line between what is real, what is not, what’s in between and beyond.

It is half past two, and Nao is most probably knocked out at the moment, will be until late tomorrow, sprawled on his own sofa and surrounded by empty beer cans, dirty dishes, half finished food; waiting for a hangover that will not be cured even by his favorite caffeinated drink, will not be lessened by his huffing and puffing when he tidies his apartment the next day and complains about everything: from heartless band mates who left without cleaning up to who among them suggested a drinking session in the first place.

Shou and Hiroto already left together – tired, drunk, swaying amidst dark and light through half closed lids, heading home in Hiroto’s car. And whose home, who really knows? Whoever offers or suggests first. He knows about them, about their little secret – has them figured out because he’s been friends with Shou for far too long. They will end up in a single house, doing god-knows-what, just like the many other secret nights they have spent sleeping too close together and waking up in a tangle of arms, sheets, legs, _tongues._

He usually leaves by himself, building his own wrecked morning, but it is different tonight as he finds himself accumulating a headache now and, unknown to him, a heartache later. Because he is already in the beginnings of being consumed by a desire kept a secret for far too long, guided by the careless reasoning of his half functioning brain running high on alcohol, nicotine, and denied emotions. He knows, _knows_ what he is capable of. But caught off guard, too trustworthy of others for his own good, who was Tora to really know?

Which is why he stands beside his motorcycle with someone instead of the usual, about to be torn to shreds.

Had there been girls (or the occasional guys) involved in this get together, Saga would have left with one, two, maybe all of them for a night of not-so-innocent fun, just because it’s what he does best. He’s not a sex god, or so the fans have dubbed him, for nothing. But he is still here with Tora in the parking area because there is no one else and it is cold – wind blowing on their equally pale faces, sifting through dark colored locks and numbing out one warm heart whose intention was and is never to fall for someone who plays people like puppets.

They’ve been friends, band mates, for far too long. Five years is a long time. So when Tora offers Saga a ride home, Saga who stands beside him looking so harmless and unsure, he sees nothing wrong with his own gesture. After all, it's late; it is dangerous even for a man. Tora can take the other home safely as opposed to the bassist taking a bus and possibly being mugged in the process.

“It’s late. I should give you a ride home.” He more of states than offers, and at this the other nods silently, climbs after him. He glances at the other as he starts his bike, the motorcycle roaring to life, the engine’s sound cutting through the silence of the dawn. He narrows his eyes.

“You’re not going to hold onto me?” he asks, turning behind him fully to peer at his companion’s half lidded eyes – drunk, sleepy, _lustful_. When he receives no quick response, he guides the other’s hands around his waist slowly, unaware that his actions are serving as an invitation even though it's not. “There we are. Hold on tight, I don’t want to be responsible for your death if you fall off.”

The other finally laughs, although a few seconds later, before speaking in that quiet, deep voice of his and getting comfortable on his newfound human pillow. “Well isn’t this gay.” And at this statement Tora finds himself laughing himself as they finally pull away from the parking lot and into the road. He shouts amidst the roar of his engine and the wind against his face.

“Better gay than dead!”

“Hmm.” The arms wrapped around his waist tightens considerably, but he thinks nothing of it although he feels the slightest bit of discomfort and more so as the other speaks directly beside his ear. It feels good _but wrong_ … it even tickles and he wants it there, but at the same time he knows _this shouldn’t be._

“Are you sure gay is better than dead Tora-san?”

Tora shies away from those warm, wet lips, and as he does his motorcycle sways a bit, threatening to throw him and Saga onto the freeway. For a moment, he forgets to breathe as he steadies his vehicle, tries to control his rapidly thudding mess of a heart. And although he knows provoking the other by saying something stupid can be avoided, he cannot help himself. He wants to know what will, _can_ happen now that they are drunk beyond belief. 

“It depends of course.” He replies, laughing if a little nervously, and he glances back slightly to peer at the bassist’s face with a suggestive smirk, if only momentarily. The other’s soft lips brush against his cheek at this, and for a split second he forgets that they are on the road as Saga speaks again. “Depends on what?”

He chuckles, mind numbed out by too much alcohol. “Depends on who that gay person is.” And having said this, heart as fast as his bike, he makes to turn away but Saga has already captured his lips for a not-so-innocent kiss, here in public while on his bike, recklessly so, without a care in the world. The bike they’re on swerves dangerously to one side, and Tora pulls away, gasping for air as several car horns yank him back to reality. He once again steadies their vehicle, mind and heart racing.

Saga’s lips are too close to his earlobe again. “Take me home, Tora.” He whispers, and his lips remain there, hot breath caressing the side of the tiger’s face. He doesn’t turn, lest Saga does something incredibly stupid again, but answers. “That’s what I’m doing. I’m taking you to your house.”

The bassist squirms closer, the arms around his waist loosens, and one hand comes dangerously close to the hem of his jeans. “No, not my house.” Saga presses his lips at the back of Tora’s ear, mischievously licks the skin there, before he is back to whispering.

“Take me home to yours.” 

..

“I’m not gay.”

Tora wonders at the smirk that appears upon Saga’s lips at his statement, but he loses a portion of his mind when the bassist kicks the front door closed and pushes him against the nearest wall, aligning that part of their bodies that need utmost attention before grinding against him. An involuntary moan escapes from his lips at the action as he closes his eyes and throws his head back, hitting it on the concrete behind him.

A soft chuckle permeates Tora’s dark, silent house. “And you say you’re not,” Saga whispers teasingly, _seductively_ , repeating the action this time slower, harder. He moans again, louder this time, panting wildly as he tries to speak. “I–I’m n—not.”

The bassist kisses him lightly on the cheek, trailing down his jaw, to the back of his ear, to his neck. “But you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” the other asks, and when he doesn’t reply, Saga repeats the same action of grinding a third time, forcing an answer out of him. 

“Y—yes! Yes…”

“Good.”

And Tora finds himself being kissed, and terribly aroused to the point of no return, he finds himself returning it despite knowing that the entire thing isn’t right, shouldn’t even be happening had he not allowed it to. Leaving a trail of clothes on the hallway, he and Saga don’t even make it to the bedroom – they fall beside the couch, on the carpet, Saga’s lips warm, soft, and wet on his own.

Saga pulls away and begins to venture down. He knows what he’s doing, and Tora lets him do what he wants – moaning, whimpering, crying out in all the right places. In a fraction of a few minutes, he discovers that he is Saga’s. 

In more ways than one.

“Saga…” Calloused fingers and a rough hand encircles his manhood, and he loses his breath as a hesitant tongue touches the tip of his cock. 

“What is it Tora?” the bassist asks, tongue no longer shy in a split second, and Tora moans, hips rocking forward involuntarily. But he forgets his words when Saga takes his cock inside his mouth, shattering his world into a million indiscernible pieces with every lick and swirl of the tongue.

But he doesn’t come.

“Not yet.” Saga whispers, engaging him in another kiss so that Tora gets a taste of himself. He is beyond aroused, wants nothing more but to claim Saga, and flipping them around, he traps the bassist beneath him, taking control although not really so. Because if he really was the one in control, they would not have ended up like this: butt naked and fucking on his living room carpet.

Without preamble, without warning, without even the slightest preparation, Tora pushes himself inside tight heat, and somehow he feels a kind of sick satisfaction at hearing Saga cry out in both pain and pleasure – for the first time since they began. Black tears roll down the side of the bassist’s face as his face scrunches up, and Tora leans down, wiping his eyeliner-stained tears away.

“I love you." He whispers breathlessly. And then he begins to move, pulling out, pushing in, keeping up a steady rhythm, in and out, fast and _faster_. He does not wait for an answer to his expression of devotion.

There will be none.

“ _Tora… yes,_ Tora…” Saga moans, calling out his name as if it means something special. He moves harder, faster, crushes Saga’s lips with his own as he nears release. He doesn’t want to hear it – hear the bassist calling out his name because Tora knows. 

That he, _all this_ , does not mean anything to Saga.

..

He wakes up alone in the living room the next day, head and heart pounding dully against the confines of his flesh. He is half naked, dressed in his boxers, and he laughs humorlessly at such misplaced concern, cradling an aching head on one hand as he sits up. He didn't put that scrap of fabric on, so someone else must have.

There is no note, no nothing, to signify Saga was there the night before. Tora is by himself, knowing exactly why he feels distraught but wondering why he is. He did get what he want, or at least a fraction of it. That's supposed to be good enough, given the chance to get at least something at all, right?

“Yeah,” he mumbles to himself as he stands up, repeating the same thought in his head over and over until he almost believes it. He retraces his, their steps from the night before. Shoes, pants, button-down shirt… like what Hansel (or was it Gretel?) did. Clothes in hand, Tora glances at his watch and realizes how late he is. He doesn't hurry, however, as he climbs up the stairs to get ready for the day. 

Because who in their right mind hurries the hell out of heartbreak?

..

As if to mock him, the moment he hops off his bike, Tora sees Saga getting off his car, equally late but in no rush.  And he gets this funny feeling in his stomach when their eyes meet – his guarded, Saga’s deadpan. As though nothing that involves more than just simple touch has taken place the night before.

He turns away, snatches his keys, hurries toward the PSC building without another glance. The last thing he wants is to talk, and although he actually _really_ wants to, Tora isn’t sure he's prepared for all the lies he's undoubtedly going to hear. Heart hammering against his ribcage, stomach churning in pain, he briskly heads for the elevators.

Pressing the up button, he waits for a few minutes.

_Ding._

He gets in. And only one other person follows him inside. They stay on opposite sides of the enclosed space as the elevator door closes, and their eyes meet again. Saga speaks first.

“Hey. Are you mad at me?”

Tora turns away and grunts. What an odd question, but he answers anyway. His voice, he finds, is weak and (trying to be) devoid of emotion. “No, why would I be?” he asks, and through his peripheral vision, he sees Saga shrug, eyes intent on him. 

“I don’t know. It just seems that way to me.” 

He places his hands inside his pockets and busies himself with watching the floor numbers flash on the electric panel atop the elevator doors. “Well I’m not. No reason to be.” And a long, agonizing silence, which is in reality just a few precious seconds, plagues them both at that. 

Until.

“I’m sorry.”

Tora is already shaking his head long before the apology finishes escaping Saga’s lips. “No, _no_. There’s no need to say sorry.” He hurries to say, hands shaking slightly. He doesn’t need this, not after baring his soul to Saga the night before. He didn’t have to say those three stupid words. Saga didn’t need to know but now he does and just...

“But I am, I really am sorry. It was my fault.”

Tora grits his teeth. “It wasn’t your fault alone. Stop saying sorry.” He snaps, closing his eyes, and his chest constricts so badly that he feels like he is on the verge of tears or a heart attack. Maybe both.

They are almost at their destination, and when he sees Saga opening his mouth to say more, Tora cuts him short. He doesn't really want to hear any more than he already has.

It’s not what he wants to hear. 

“Besides, I should be the one who’s sorry.” He starts, looking at Saga, _really_ looks at him, and smiling bitterly as he continues just to get this conversation over and done with. “I’m sorry it’s you. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want it to be you. _Not you_ , of all people.”

_Ding._

The elevator door opens. “It’s not that I don’t care about you…” Saga says, but Tora just shakes his head and laughs but without humor, shutting the bassist up when he cuts in. Lies, _lies and bullshit_. And Saga, well, he can be the king of cliché if he wants to be.

“But you don’t Saga.” Tora walks out of the elevator and glances at Saga only briefly, before turning around and walking ahead, _away_. “You just don’t.”

And that there was the painful truth.


End file.
